The Most Deathless Love
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring
Summary: If Chakotay broke up with Seven, of course he'd turn to Janeway, right? I said, RIGHT? Angst. Mild language.


TITLE: The Most Deathless Love  
AUTHOR: Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
FEEDBACK TO: shafshir@microconnect.net  
CODE: J/C, sort of. Angst.  
RATING: PG (mild language)  
PART: 1/1  
DISCLAIMER: No Paramount copyrights were harmed in the writing of this story.  
SUMMARY: A number of post-"Endgame" stories posit that, once Chakotay and Seven "inevitably" break up, Chakotay will turn to the woman he truly loves: Kathryn Janeway. Well, I guess that's *one* theory. Originally written for the "Die, J/C, Die" contest (for the death of a relationship, not of the participants -- this is not a death fic), so consider yourself warned.  
  
  
  
"But, Scarlett, did it ever occur to you that even the most deathless love could wear out?"  
She looked at him speechless, her mouth a round O.  
-- Margaret Mitchell, "Gone With the Wind"  
  
  
  
The Most Deathless Love  
by Brenda Shaffer-Shiring  
  
  
Kathryn Janeway didn't know when she'd made the decision to come here. Perhaps there'd been no conscious decision; perhaps the action had been instinctive, automatic.  
  
The time she'd awaited for years had come at last. And she was here to meet it, at the door of Chakotay's apartment.  
  
Her crew -- she supposed that technically they were her former crew, but to her mind the crew of Voyager would always be simply "her crew" -- had wasted no time in letting her know that Seven and Chakotay had broken up. In the past few days, she'd received no fewer than five messages informing her of that salient fact. Not that they'd been quite so blunt as that, of course; the news had been slipped in along with other data, involving the sender's own life or career or concerns. Kathryn smiled slightly, remembering the adroitness with which Harry Kim had dropped the information into a long, newsy letter ostensibly about his current ship and recent promotion.  
  
She thought that she and Chakotay had been discreet about their mutual attraction, but the others had known, hadn't they? Known that, no matter whom he might have turned to when she was unavailable to him, the bond endured. In an instant, Kathryn's thoughts flew back to all the myriad little proofs of their seven years aboard Voyager: the sly flirtations, the innuendoes. His solemnly-related "ancient legend" back on New Earth, and his flashing smile when she'd called him on it. His tears at her supposed death -- no, that scene had been illusory, crafted in her own mind, but his patent relief and the rose he'd offered her after her recovery had been real enough. Candlelit dinners. Sidelong glances. Hints of jealousy when her affections occasionally turned elsewhere, no matter how briefly. Hints of guilt when his own did the same.  
  
The irony, of course, was that just when Kathryn would have become available to a real relationship with him, he had taken up with her lovely protégéé. Seven was dearer than daughter to Kathryn, and Kathryn would not have hurt Seven for the world -- any world -- so she stood back and let the younger woman have her chance. Yet there had been times, even at the peak of his relationship with Seven, when Kathryn had caught Chakotay looking at her with what resembled a wistful speculation, and she had sensed that the tie between them was not broken.  
  
The bond endured. Now, at last, she could yield to it, and to him. He was no longer linked to another, and any who might have objected to a relationship between a captain and her first officer could make no similar complaint about one between a Starfleet admiral and a professor of anthropology.  
  
She pressed the door signal. A small light flashed on the doorpad, indicating that the inhabitant of the apartment was "looking" to see who his caller was, and Kathryn smiled in what she hoped was the direction of his sensorcam.  
  
After a moment, the door swished open and she stepped in.  
  
This was Chakotay's own apartment, a recent acquisition to replace the larger and more "uptown" residence he'd shared with Seven. Even if Kathryn hadn't known that, she thought she would have guessed it from the style of the place, with its dark woods and earth tones enlivened by small touches of color: rugs, curtains, and hangings in bright, primitive geometrics. Broad-paned windows intended to admit the light of the evening sky, though darkened now with fog and rain. In the dimmed interior, several old-fashioned table lamps cast round pools of light, leaving deep wells of shadow between.  
  
Chakotay stood in one of those shadowed realms, the back of a long couch partly blocking her view of his powerful body. "Kathryn," he said, his soft baritone without inflection, his expression unreadable in the dimness.  
  
"Chakotay." She stepped toward him, trying to get a better look at his face: the strong bones, the full lips, the familiar tattoo. Too long since she'd seen him last; even this much sight of him sent a little frisson along her nerves. How had she stayed away from him so long? At the moment she had no idea. He was a magnet and she was metal, his very presence drawing her irresistibly closer.  
  
As she came around the side of the couch to face him, he stepped back slightly, causing her to hesitate. But of course he didn't know her intentions, didn't realize that she'd come to take down the barriers that had held the two of them apart. Respecting his doubts, she held her ground. "I heard about you and Seven," she said softly, by way of beginning.  
  
He averted his eyes only after the flash of pain, clear to her even in the low light. All he said was, "Yes."   
  
"I'm sorry." In a way it was true; she was sorry for his pain, even (despite remnants of jealousy) sorry for Seven's. In their different ways, each of them was dear to her, and she wanted both to be happy, even if not with each other.  
  
"It's all right." Chakotay stepped back again, the motion putting the arm of the couch between them. His eyes dropped to the piece of furniture as if its straight lines and angles interested him. "I think we both knew it was coming. It just --" His hand described a vague shape in the air. "It just wasn't working. She was the wrong person. We were the wrong people."  
  
"I'm not sure what you mean," Kathryn said, trying to quell the ineffable thrill that suggested -- that hoped -- she did know.  
  
"Maybe this was just the wrong place, or the wrong time. Maybe things would've worked if we'd stayed on Voyager." Where Kathryn would have stayed unavailable? Was that what he meant? She guessed/hoped it was. "I don't know." He looked away, to some other shadowed region. "I do know I seem to have a talent for being attracted to the wrong women. Sveta." Janeway vaguely remembered her to be the woman who'd brought Chakotay into the Maquis. "Seska." No explanation needed there. "Riley Frasier." Nor there. "Seven." A heartbeat. "You."  
  
Though softly spoken, the word hit her like a slap. "Me?" she managed at last. //I was the wrong woman?//  
  
He snorted mildly. "After all this time, you're not going to pretend you didn't know how I felt about you."  
  
"I didn't --" she groped. "No. I knew. But Chakotay --"  
  
"Of course you did. I think everyone on Voyager did." A wry smile twisted the full lips. "There were even times when I thought you felt the same way."  
  
Oh, God, no. Surely he had understood. Surely he had known.... But -- Kathryn steadied herself with an effort -- perhaps he was only feeling hurt and unsure in the wake of his breakup with Seven. Perhaps at the moment he was simply afraid to trust *anyone's* affection, even Kathryn's. She moved quickly to reassure him, laying a hand on his. "Chakotay, I did feel the same way. I do feel the same way. You know that." At the widening of his eyes, she pressed on intently, "And now that I'm not the captain -- not your captain -- any more, we can pursue that. We don't have to be afraid of anyone finding out about our feelings. Not any more."  
  
His lips moved, but for a moment no sound escaped them. Then he lowered his head for a moment, long fingers rubbing his tattooed forehead. "Oh, gods..." he said finally, softly. "Kathryn...." The fingers of his other hand slipped from beneath Kathryn's to take up residence on his hip, as he looked at her with an expression that seemed frankly bewildered.  
  
"Chakotay?" The doubt was rising again, and with it a sense of dismay.  
  
"Kathryn...." He paced a few steps away from her before turning to regard her once again, his outspread hands extended. "I..." He dropped his hands, looked at them momentarily as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them next. In the end, he simply left them at his sides. "Why didn't you tell me about your feelings years ago?" The question showed simple confusion.  
  
"Chakotay, you knew I couldn't -- I couldn't talk about -- not while I was your captain. I thought you knew -- thought you understood --" She knew she was babbling, but she had to tell him -- had to get him to *see*.  
  
"I thought I understood too," he said softly, regret twisting the sounds of the words. "I thought..." He turned away, his steps carrying him to a rain-darkened window, and he focused his gaze on the blurred skyline beyond. "Well, damn." He tilted his head upward, as if he was looking for the stars they'd left behind when they returned to Earth.  
  
"For the longest time, I thought you wanted me to wait," he said quietly. "I thought all that you needed was time to get used to the idea that our life on Voyager was just that -- our *life*. The idea that loving me wasn't surrendering your goals, or your command. But so much time passed, so many opportunities went by the board, that I started to think I must be mistaken.  
  
"I thought that if you loved me, you'd have found some way to tell me. Even if it was only to tell me we had to wait." The low words fell into the silence like single drops of water. "But you never did, Kathryn. Oh, you flirted once in a while, and you joked, but you never came right out and said anything. Do you know what I started to think? I started to think that maybe you were just afraid to turn me down, afraid to risk our friendship or our working relationship.  
  
"I started to think that maybe you were just trying to let me down gently."  
  
"No!" Oh gods, this was the worst of all possible worst cases. He had misunderstood her about as badly as it was possible to misunderstand. She crossed to him, taking his arm in her hand and turning him to face her, looking intently up into the dark brown eyes. "Chakotay, no," she said, calling up command firmness to quell what might otherwise have become panic. "I never thought of trying to let you down, gently or any other way. I didn't ask you to wait for me because I couldn't, not when I didn't know how long it would be. That wouldn't have been right. It wouldn't have been fair to you."  
  
He held her gaze. "But it was fair to me to leave me wondering where I stood." The words were mild enough, but a part of Kathryn knew her former first officer well enough not to take that fact at face value.  
  
Her heart sank. "No," she said softly. "No, that wasn't fair, either." Her hand closed over his, squeezing it tightly. "But, Chakotay, can't you find it in your heart to forgive me for that? We were in an impossible situation then, but things are different here and now. They *can* be different. We can *make* them different. Let's start again."  
  
He sighed, and she could hear a weight of weariness in it. "There wouldn't be any point to starting again, Kathryn."  
  
She held herself very still, refused to let herself think or feel. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I don't love you, Kathryn." He said it simply, directly, honestly.  
  
"What?" she said, though she knew she'd heard him correctly.  
  
"I don't love you." He withdrew his hand, paced a few steps away from her before turning back. "Not any more."  
  
"But you said you do -- you said you did --" //Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic...//  
  
"I said I did." Though his voice was low, his intonation subtly emphasized the verb tense. "For a very long time, I did. Kathryn, I loved you through the Kazon, and Q, and the Borg. I held you when I thought you were dead, and I thought the pain would be enough to kill me. I loved you when we disagreed about Seven. All the times we disagreed about Seven." His eyes, his tone, were even. "I loved you enough to stand aside while you pursued Kashyk."  
  
Quietly spoken or not, she could tell that last was a point she needed to address. "I pursued Kashyk because it was my duty," she said bluntly. "You knew that at the time."  
  
"And I could see how much you hated your duty," he answered levelly. "I loved you, I was loyal to you, I was devoted to your good and the good of the ship -- and you wanted him. He was a cold-blooded killer, and you never really believed he was anything else -- and you wanted *him*."  
  
How could she answer that? She *had* wanted Kashyk, wanted him passionately, intensely; that she had not actually bedded him had only been lack of opportunity. To be sure, a part of her desire had been the thrill of the treacherous, deadly sport they played, and the secret high of knowing that she had trump cards that would help her beat that charismatic devil at his own monstrous game. Another part had been the sense of freedom; even of license, knowing that her crew would approve, and honor, *anything* she did that distracted Kashyk from his murderous goals. And a part of it was simply her own long-frustrated need to be touched.  
  
She had been too caught up in her own plans and feelings to even think of Chakotay then, beyond his function on the ship. It had not occurred to her to wonder if he might be angry at the nature of her "distraction." If he might be hurt.  
  
If he might love her less for it.  
  
But that wasn't quite fair, to hold her completely accountable for her actions then, when it was hardly the first time one of them had turned away from the other. "If you were so true and so faithful before Kashyk," and she knew there was an edge to her words there had not been to his, "then how do you account for Riley Frasier?"  
  
His eyes widened. After a moment he snorted a little snort that sounded like surprise and bemusement. "You blame me for Riley Frasier."  
  
"*Shouldn't* I?" she said sharply.  
  
Another little snort. "Sure, fine. Go ahead." No apology, no guilt, just that faint sound of amusement. "I guess I didn't handle my Borg assimilation as well as you handled yours, Kathryn. Of course, I didn't have a cutoff circuit in my head. Maybe next time."  
  
Stymied, she stood and stared at him.  
  
"Kathryn, I don't want to trade accusations with you," he continued after a moment, mildly. "What's past is past, and rehashing it won't change anything. You wanted to know if we could have another chance. We can't. I'm sorry."  
  
"If you're sorry," she forced her voice to steadiness, "then give me that chance. Give me the chance to show you what I feel for you. Give me the chance to show you what you can still feel for me." Admiral Kathryn Janeway had never admitted defeat in her life, and she would not admit it now. It had been decades and more since she'd failed at anything that truly mattered to her. With a little time, she knew that she could reawaken his love: his heart had been hers once, and it would be hers again.  
  
"No." His expression was gentle, his words low. "There's no point, Kathryn. And to be honest, I don't have the time to waste. As soon as this semester ends, I'm leaving Earth."  
  
"*What*?"  
  
"It's not home any more." A rueful smile turned up the corner of his lips. "If it ever was." He turned back toward the window, fingers curling over the sill as he once again tried, vainly, to see stars through the overcast sky. "I'm going back to Dorvan, Kathryn."  
  
"What the -- Chakotay, you can't!" Her plans, her hopes, had been for a life with him here, on Earth, side by side, where she could do her work and he could do his, and life would be complete at last....  
  
"I have to, Kathryn. If it hadn't been for Seven I'd probably have gone sooner, but she needs a level of technology Dorvan doesn't have. Now that she's gone...." He angled his head, as though looking from another angle would give him a better view. "They need me for the rebuilding, and I...." He sighed, as if tired. "I want to go home."  
  
Kathryn heard the words with despair. If that was what Chakotay wanted, then there truly was nothing left for them. Dorvan was almost as far from Earth, from Starfleet headquarters, as it was possible to get and still be in Federation space. If he went that far away from her, every chance would be over; she would probably never see him again. And there was no question of her accompanying him; she could no more live on Dorvan than could Seven.  
  
"I see," she said at last, dully.  
  
"I'm sorry, Kathryn." He turned his head then, and looked at her, and she saw something that looked appallingly like pity in his dark eyes. "If it could be different...."  
  
Oh, gods, the last thing she could bear was his pity. Squaring her shoulders, drawing up the last of her dignity, she said firmly, "But it can't."  
  
He nodded slowly, a hint of respect displacing that other feeling in his gaze.  
  
//Dignity, dammit, dignity.// She took a steadying swallow and offered her hand to him. "Good journey, Chakotay."  
  
He accepted her hand, offered her a faint smile. "Thank you."  
  
Then somehow she was out of the apartment and the apartment building, rainfall muting the sound of her footsteps on concrete Terran sidewalks just as raindrops camouflaged the tears on pale Terran cheeks.  
  
END 


End file.
